Ralph had travelled thus far in the fixed determination of pushing on to London, seeking audience of the King himself, and pleading for an amnesty.

But the resolution which had never failed him before began now to waver.

Surely there was more than his political offences involved in the long series of disasters that had befallen his household?
He reflected that every link in that chain of evil seemed to be coupled to the gyves that hung about his own wrists.

Wilson's life in Wythburn--his death--Sim's troubles--Rotha's sorrow--even his father's fearful end, and the more fearful accident at the funeral--then his mother's illness, nigh to death--how nigh to death by this time God alone could tell him here--all, all, with this last misery of his own banishment, seemed somehow to centre in himself.
Yes, yes, sin and its wages must be in this thing; but what sin, what sin?
What was the crime that cast its shadow over his life?
"As the waters run when the flood-gates are up," said the preacher, "so doth the visitation of God's love pass away from thee." Of what use, then, would be the amnesty of the King?
Mockery of mockeries! In a case like this only the Great King Himself could proclaim a pardon.

Ralph put his hands over his eyes as the vision came back to him of a riderless horse flying with its dread burden across the fells.